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“Never said you wouldn’t.” He wets his lips and tips his head back, staring at Rome’s bedroom balcony above. “Rome’s kind, untarnished by the world you and I see daily.”

Bold of this motherfucker to assume he knows anything about me. He’s not wrong, but it’s still bold.

Xander drops his gaze back to me. “You’ve had your fun. Just leave him be.”

I shake my head.

He nods once and then disappears back inside, locking the door.

I may have just picked a fight with someone many in this city cower from, but that thought only excites me. Xander’s minions are meaningless regarding his death. It’s the possibility of Rome discovering I was the reason behind it that’s forbidding me from storming in there and putting a bullet in him, and Xander knows it.

Motherfucker.

Chapter six

ROME

Idislike the events I’m forced to do—I just dislike dealing with people, honestly. I love my job, but there are days I wish I could only train and play. I’m not fond of the huge crowds watching my every move, the press conferences, the interviews, the cameras. I’m aware it’s part of what I signed up for, but I just want to play football.

The orange lights of my white Audi blink when I lock it; I slide my keys into the pocket of my trousers and adjust my suit jacket. My stomach contorts to tie its usual knot when the door is opened for me.

“Mr Aston.”

I force a smile at the young woman. “Thank you.”

Most of my teammates prefer the front entrance lined with paparazzi, but the continuous flashing lights, the shutter of cameras, and people screaming your name in every direction is beyond a sensory overload. Of course, a few cameras went off at the function hall’s back gate as I entered, because paparazzi are aware not all of us enter through the front. Windows up, neutral face, is my repetitive mantra. I love my fans, but when you have a crowd gathered around you, there’s only so many photos you can pose for, only so many hands you can tolerate grabbing at you before it’s overwhelming.

Reaching the top of the stairs, I close my eyes and take a deep breath.

Here we go again.

The room buzzes with extraordinary wealth, the chandelier lights glinting off expensive jewellery and the orchestras’ instruments as they play at the far end on the stage.

I jump when an arm wraps around my shoulders. “You missed the excitement, mate.” Charlie shakes me, blue eyes sparkling with mischief.

I give him a rough laugh. “Doubt it.”

“Winston tripped up the pavement,” he snickers.

“Watch it.” Brad Winston rubs his hand over Charlie’s blond buzz cut as he passes.

They’re basking in all that comes with their first season in the team, and while I can relate to that, they certainly don’t lack condescension. I may be only twenty, but they act as though wisdom comes with age. They’re four years older, but this is my third season in this league. They’ll learn they have no ‘personal life’ anymore. Everything is made public. Eat an ice cream oddly, and the picture goes viral. Make a statement that could be taken out of context or misunderstood, and you can face lawsuits and public shame.

I remove myself from Charlie’s hold and bow my head, heading for a table with water bottles.

Just drown the nausea.

The now-empty bottle crumbles in my fist when my parents enter across the room, no doubt having entered through the front.

Daniel and Lucy Aston.

My mother fluffs her long blond hair, dressed in a tight white gown that is too extraordinary for this event, as she stands beside my father, who wears a tux. I believe the invitation read ‘smart casual’, not ‘dress to meet the fucking Queen.’

That dreaded knot only tightens when they spot me through the crowd.

Great.

I throw the empty bottle in the bin and meet them halfway. My mother’s green eyes light up when I step before her. “Good evening, darling.”